He sent the pictures on ahead,
as to seem previously arranged.
Laid the flowers as near to her door as he dares,
singing low of the nightstorm when everything changed,
then dances off alone, detected but unaffected by the stares.
Sleight of hand, a certain Eloquence, Miss Charisma and Lady Class;
each alone, in group of three, or every so often a pair.
No one believes how much can permanently change, so fast,
yet none of these ladies knows any way out of there.
The pretty face, the dazzling smile, have done him in at last.
Now, clutching at destiny like the last chance he will see,
ignores the growling dog of fate which he figures to be all bark.
He parades his newfound history as, instead, victories;
slapping down of his ego as nothing but a careless lark,
incompatible with this new philosophy.